The Jesus I know died on a pole. He was not a God—he did not want to be. He told the thief hanging beside him “Welcome to Paradise,” but all the man could see were pyramids / cheetahs thrashing their wild tails like an angry mob. I mean, what’s the difference between the King of All Kings & the Lord of Man, & the god of your Last Will & Testament. In my favorite stripper fantasy, Cleopatra wears spots & scaffolds around you like a vortex. I lick her cheetah paws & lap dance into your arms like the baddest deity of your dreams. You enter me first with a tail I have grown & I am as much an animal as a diamond: solid hard & pure. The way you say my name in bed. You curse every god you’ve ever met. What’s the difference between a woman set loose & a loose woman & a woman who crowns herself Pharaoh of a country that is not / hers. The Jesus I know is not the kind of insurgent Jerusalem expects after all that time building the pyramids. You are Sampson when I pull your hair. I blind your eyes & the pillars of your strength all crumble like a temple. In this way, I am the god you hail from champagne flutes to bath -tub baptism. I wonder why, if we are gods ourselves, we revival —shout the names of men we worship only of necessity. I am only a woman when I complete you. I disrobe of all my God-given parts. I wake up folded in the shape of breasts & young men’s jewelry. I know why I love only you & you & me & working out the pyramid -scheme of my gold- / toned profanity.